


My Skin

by citrusella



Series: Citrusella's "Steven Corruption Theory" Collection [2]
Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Corrupted Steven Theory, Corruption, Gen, Introspection, Self-Acceptance, Self-Doubt, Self-Reflection, Steven Universe Future, in which I invoke a Lizzo song but it's unclear if I did so WELL, self-criticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2021-01-13 14:12:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21050903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrusella/pseuds/citrusella
Summary: Steven does a mental inventory of what's changed about him since his uncorruption and finds himself starting to fall into a hole of self-criticism, until a song playing downstairs sets him straight.(Based on the "corrupted Steven theory".)





	My Skin

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to fictionalize Lizzo into an alternate name (a la Estelle becoming Stella), but she's apparently too powerful to be turned into an off-brand. Like Mike Kroll but presumably with less connection to the Crewniverse (or me).

He clenches and unclenches his hand. It's not a claw anymore, but he swears the ends of his fingers still feel sharp. Maybe his nails just need a trim? (Does it matter that he'd just trimmed them before all this? He thinks it doesn't.)

It's been a few days now, but his own body still feels foreign to him in its now-changed state.

The thorns on the top of his head are mostly hidden, the two larger ones poking just a centimeter or two out of his hair and the small bump in the middle—all that's left of the third—well obscured underneath his curls, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know they're there.

The ones on either side of his head are a different story. The one on the right is large and hard for anyone looking at him to miss as it pokes the back of his earlobe rather annoyingly, as if it's trying to either shove it out of the way or give him a gauge piercing like Lars. The left one, on the other hand, while much smaller, is actually _inside_ his ear, though, barely peeking out of the canal, and he's not sure if that's better or worse, since he can't feel it for the most part but it _is_ blocking it like some sort of weird earplug. The fact that they're even that high up is a little confusing since, from what he's been told, they were near his mouth back when he had been fully corrupted, like tusks or something.

The thought of tusks and suddenly he finds his tongue running over his teeth, their shapes the same (unfortunate, since fangs or something might've been cool) but his jaw newly shifted so as to give him a significant underbite. The changed mouth shape makes it hard to pronounce things—strike that, impossible. _No one_ seems to understand him. Even his own name comes out garbled, the familiar movements now foreign enough to throw everything off.

Garnet seems sure he'll adjust and it'll clear up at least a bit and he's sure she's seeing it in some far off stream of time so he believes her, but that hasn't stopped Connie from picking up a sign language book or two from the library, like some sort of extra contingency just in case Garnet predicted the wrong timeline.

He hasn't cracked one open with her, but he has to admit the idea of learning another language _does_ sound fun; he'd been trying to learn Gem, before, but Pearl was right about how complex it was and he'd eventually given up without a dedicated teacher. Maybe this could be different? Not easier, necessarily, but maybe he could be more motivated now, with the ability to actually, well, _use_ it.

Then he notices the bright pink blotch on his right hand and wonders if it'd be distracting, if learning would be worth the trouble if people just stared at it—

No, he isn't supposed to think of it that way—to think of _himself_ that way… but he finds it increasingly easy lately, like the fact it happened to _him_ means it's different, somehow, than any of the others.

Everyone is there for him, he knows it—they'd been there for him since the moment he'd uncorrupted, since before he'd ever been corrupted in the first place, if he is really truly _brutally_ honest with himself—but they've also been willing to give him his space in these days after, opting to leave him alone, unbothered, in his room.

…Which is—other than that first day, when the gems and Dad wouldn't leave him alone, like they thought they might lose him again at any moment—where he's spent most of his time since he's been "back", alone with his thoughts until he can't bear it anymore and he goes downstairs to hang out with Garnet, Amethyst, Pearl or Dad, or to Connie's.

It's… fine… most of the time. Until he gets self-conscious again and retreats back to his safe hiding place away from freaked out stares of people who've never seen him like this, like some part of the corruption is still asserting itself and reducing him to a bundle of fight-or-flight reflexes and survival instincts.

He didn't used to be self-conscious, at least not _this_ much. What is _wrong_ with him?! He grabs a pillow and places it over his face, groaning loudly into it. When his groaning subsides, he lets the sounds of the environment wash over him. The waves outside crash onto the sand and rocks, someone—Dad, maybe—flushes the toilet below him.

Lizzo wafts in from downstairs. Connie and Amethyst have been listening to her since a short while after he got psyched out and dashed upstairs a few hours ago. He thinks Pearl might be down there, too, but if she is then he can't hear her over the music.

_I woke up in this. I woke up in this, in my skin… I can't wash it away, so you can't take it from me… my brown skin…_

He pulls the pillow off his face and hugs it, glimpsing the markings on his left arm.

He has never had brown skin, not as himself, and he still doesn't even as his light peach intermingles with a darker hue, but as the music envelops him, he finds himself reaching for the stripes and shades of rose splotched across his skin, tracing their edges to the notes. He feels the music pressing him forward, pushing his fingers across his arms as if the lyrics can maybe somehow apply here, can somehow be about him, even though they might not be _exactly_ about this, about _him_. It's strange and comforting all at once, like the best poetry, the best music is.

The song is a warm cookie, a fluffy blanket, a loving hug for a brain that needs it so, so bad right now.

…It's not going away. It's part of him now. That's _scary_. It's _new_. The prospect of coming to terms with it, of coming to terms with _what made it happen_, that's daunting. One song, no matter how nice, is not enough.

But it's _his_ skin, _his_ mouth, _his_ ears, _his_ scalp. If he doesn't accept it… no matter how long it takes him to do that… what will he do instead?

He sits up and looks rightward, squinting at what he can see from his bed of his reflection in the clear glass of the sliding door. He places a few fingers to his face for a moment before reaching backward to pull his phone off the nightstand and send a text.

_Hey. Can you put that song on repeat?_

He heads downstairs.


End file.
